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“Let’s go,” Kristof orders, shoving the butcher toward the front room.
I follow, steering the son as I fight the revulsion rising in my throat.
“Would you look at that?” Viktor singsongs. “It appears like they returned from that delivery after all.”
Mrs. Butcher trembles visibly from behind the counter, tears running freely down her cheeks now. “P–Please don’t hurt them!” she begs.
“What do you want from us?” the old man demands, struggling fruitlessly in the grip of Rasputin’s men.
“I want the names and location of the group that ambushed us this summer,” Viktor says casually, pushing off the wall where he leans to approach the butcher.
“I already told you everything we know!” the old man shouts, his face paling as his eyes wheel in panic.
“I’ve heard otherwise,” Rasputin says softly.
As he draws his gun, the butcher starts to tremble.
“Please, we had nothing to do with it,” the old man insists.
“No, nothing?” Rasputin presses, his tone growing more impatient as he closes the distance between himself and the butcher, whose thinning hair is suddenly growing slick with sweat.
“Please!” the old man begs. “How long have you been coming in here? How many times have I given you the information you need? I’ve proven trustworthy, haven’t I? Why doubt my loyalty now?” He’s on the brink of hysterics, the whites of his eyes showing all around his irises as he tugs against Malik and Kristof.
“So, you didn’t provide your nephew and his two friends a place to hide when they came to you in the dead of night? You didn’t patch them up and find a driver who could transport them silently across the border in exchange for a pocketful of cash?” Rasputin murmurs, his face inches from the butcher’s.
“N–N… W–Where did you hear that?” the butcher breathes, shaking his head in denial.
“Where do you think?” Rasputin asks, straightening.
Then, with a cool sneer, he strides to the son I’m still restraining and presses the muzzle of his gun to the kid’s forehead.
“What about now, old man?” he taunts. “This jogging your memory any?”
“Please, God, please! Just wait. Wait!” he cries as his wife sobs openly. “Yes, okay. Yes. I helped them. I’ll tell you everything. Just please don’t hurt my son.”
“Dad,” the son says, his tone anxious and warning as he silently pleas for him to shut up.
I crank his wrist a little harder, drawing a cry from him and making him bend at the hips—out of the direct line of fire. “Shut up,” I hiss. “The grown-ups are talking.” Ironic, considering I can’t be more than three years older than him. But our difference in size makes up for it.
“I want names and locations,” Rasputin says bluntly, his eyes steady on the old man.
Tears of remorse stream down the guy’s face as his head hangs in defeat. “Mikhail Tetrova, Levin Dolohov, and Pyotr Sven. Those are the three I took in, but they’re gone now. I haven’t seen them in nearly two weeks.”
Rasputin cocks his gun, clearly demonstrating that it’s not good enough.
“Wait, wait!” the butcher hollers. “They spoke about meeting up with two more men—a man with the last name Novikov, Anton Novikov, I think, and someone they only referred to as Kryuger. I heard they were supposed to meet up at some speakeasy if they got separated. That they might be able to lie low for a while once they got there.”
Blyat.
I know the name of the speakeasy before they even have to say it. Round Midnight has a reputation for housing the scum of the earth. Even Sascha and I managed to mooch a room off the club bouncers once or twice over the years when we got booted from our apartments. For the right price, they’ll take in just about any stray for a few days.
I doubt the men we’re looking for are still there, but I don’t relish the idea of barging into the club where I’ve been taking Alina for nearly a month now and cracking skulls for information.
Rasputin’s eyes narrow suspiciously. He shifts his aim a fraction of an inch, and the air around me explodes as he pulls the trigger. I can barely hear the piercing, bloodcurdling scream of Mrs. Butcher over the ringing in my ears. I can only imagine how her son’s head must feel.
He releases an agonized scream as he claps a hand over the missing tip of his ear. He’s lucky he didn’t get a bullet in the brain.
I fight the urge to shake the cotton from my ears, maintaining my stoic expression. If it were anyone but my captain who fired a gun so close to my head, I’d forget about restraining the butcher’s son and pummel the trigger-happy idiot to within an inch of his life. But right now, that would severely reduce the impact of Rasputin’s threat.
